


twinkle twinkle little star

by captainhurricane



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Body Horror, Dead Space AU, Dismemberment, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 10:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15661833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: Shiro is a medical officer, Keith is a soldier. Shiro never learns Keith's name before it all goes to hell.





	twinkle twinkle little star

**Author's Note:**

> i love sheith, vld and dead space (dead space 3 doesn't exist as far as i'm concerned) so naturally it all had to come together at some point. very light on the sheith - they're kinda busy trying to live.

Shiro has always loved space. He had been born on a space station orbiting Mars, intrigued by the stars from the very first time he had placed his palm on the cool glass of the station windows. When he had been young, danger had been hull breaks, loneliness, deterioration of the skeleton, weakening of the immune system and so forth.

 

Aliens had been all science fiction, blips in the system. 

 

SS Yamamoto, a planet cracker of the newest kind, is where Shiro is stationed now, at thirty-four. As happy with his life as he ever can be with a steady job, he has no need for dreams of the future. He’s in the stars like he always wanted to be, his parents ten years gone, his friendships reduced to the crew of the Yamamoto: to shitty jokes, shittier drinks and a few hushed kisses that never lead to anything. 

 

SS Yamamoto is a hulking mass of metal, clumsy and too big, a beached whale in the middle of stirring nothingness. It is essentially defenseless.

 

Yet there is nothing there. Shiro has been in space for all his life and there has never been anything there. 

 

It’s a running joke among the crew even: they came for aliens and found none, just mining jobs and the steady whirr and whistle and hum of the machinery all around them as SS Yamamoto lives on, uncaring of the ants inside of it. It will live on even if all of them were to die.

 

Shiro is there with his two colleagues to make sure it doesn’t happen: he heals little scrapes and scratches, takes in those who take shuttles down to the planet they’re orbiting around and come back with space sickness and infections. Shiro is usually left alone by his colleagues, he chats with them amiably enough, likes them fine enough but they look at his prosthetic, his licences, his young face and find him lacking. 

 

This is what Shiro wants to do. He knows there are knick-knacks in his prosthetic that he hasn’t quite unlocked yet - that much his engineer had told him - but it is no matter. It works like his other arm, fine enough. 

 

It does draw favourable attention from a soldier. Shiro thinks Kogane is the only soldier in the entire ship, at least the only one who carries a gun on the regular. Kogane never takes his helmet off, is never seen without it or the gun. 

 

His voice comes out a little distorted, but his laughter is real when Shiro manages to make him sit down.

 

So far he knows Kogane is twenty-nine, an orphan like Shiro, born on good old Earth, put into the rearview-mirror.

 

“Pa was a firefighter, ma a soldier,” Kogane whispers at the end of their day cycle. “They are both long gone now.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, lays his palm on Kogane’s shoulder, heavily padded by his armour. 

 

Kogane’s head droops and he huffs. “It was a long time ago.  Back to work, Shirogane.” 

 

Shiro never quite manages to ask Kogane’s first name before everything goes to hell.

 

* * 

 

All Shiro hears are monumental find, interest, research, proof of alien life. All he sees are clips of something massive being unearthed from a planet by yet another planet cracker, something that reeks foreboding threat. What secrets the vast universe holds, silently Shiro thinks that the human race may not want to know them all.

 

He doesn’t get to share these thoughts with any of his colleagues aboard or Kogane, closest thing to a friend he has before the first infection happens.

 

The man, an engineer on the lower levels, had been in peak condition before suddenly falling ill, starting to ramble about the Marker, about the moon and dead things walking. The man’s eyes are bloodshot, his lips bloody as he grabs Shiro’s arm. 

 

“Stay calm, sir, we’re doing all we can,” Shiro says and shakes off the man’s grip to turn his arm and - the veins shift and turn under the man’s translucent, sickly white skin. Shiro recoils, inhaling quickly behind his breathing mask. 

 

He looks again, the glove making his palm clammy. 

 

“The moon,” the man on the sickbed wails.The things under his skin shift and turn, his skin cracks and begins to peel and - Shiro withdraws, ignores the question from his colleague Jones, ushers Jones out of the room and slams and locks the door after them. His guts are telling him to run but instead Shiro tugs the breathing mask off his face and looks inside.

 

Jones goes quiet next to him, staring also as the man inside is peeled apart, his insides turned around, even through the thick walls and windows it’s clear the man is screaming in pain. 

Shiro’s insides are turning into mush, his skin gone cold under his unprotective medical officer’s uniform. 

 

The man inside is no longer a man - God, Shiro can’t suddenly even recall his name - but a creature, a monster, jaw unhinged, arms like scythes. It rams itself against the window and shouts. 

 

“Fuck,” Jones chokes out. 

 

Shiro inhales deeply. He taps on his communicator. It makes a sad little beep and goes dark. “Fuck,” Shiro agrees. “At least this room is contained, whatever this is - we don’t know if it’s contagious, we don’t -” He takes another deep inhale and grabs Jones by the arm. Together they leave the snarling monster and descend deeper into the medbay. 

 

“Czerny was on the ground group,” Jones whispers. “But the others… they showed no symptoms. I mean, it looked like Czerny was just-” Jones is older than Shiro by a good fifteen years or so but now Shiro feels much like he’s leading a child. 

 

The hallway they take is brightly lit. The ship groans, a wounded beast and shakes. They find their footing and then it’s again just silence and the ringing in their ears. 

 

“My communicator is unoperational too,” Jones whispers. He curses. 

 

Shiro takes a deep, deep breath. “If more of those things are out there, we need to be ready.”  He searches his memory for the layout of the ship, tries in vain to tap his communicator again. “The armory is on a completely different level, but the supply closet with guns should be -” his words fade as the lights begin to flicker. 

 

Jones stands stock-still next to him, face ashen. Shiro images he doesn’t look much better. 

 

“Power outage, it’s nothing,” Shiro whispers. “Supplies. Come on, buddy.” He leads the way, turns another corner, another, freezes when he hears sudden banging from the vents. Jones inhales, close to panic. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Shiro’s voice sounds small in his own ears. “It’s okay.” Yet his instincts are telling him this is a sign of something worse, something bigger. He remember the foreboding of that massive statue on the screens. Was it truly alien? Who created it? 

 

More banging from the vents. Uselessly Shiro shushes them both. Jones wheezes next to him, crouches as well. 

 

A scream pierces the air, louder than the hum of the vents, of the machinery keeping SS Yamamoto afloat. Creaks and groans and all the noise Shiro has come to expect from a space ship. 

 

Not the banging. Not the scream. It shifts from panic and pain into something inhuman. 

“Fuck,” Jones whispers.

Shiro inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Counts to five. 

 

The banging quiets down, the scrapes go louder until they’re right by Shiro’s ear. Every muscle in his body tightens with tension, ready to bolt. 

“Oh God,” Jones whimpers, a terrified little boy in the body of a grown man. 

 

Shiro knows how to keep panic and fear in check. He inhales deep. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. 

 

Then another ear-piercing scream splits the air and the wall bursts apart, letting out a monster of stretched flesh and dislocated limbs, sending it straight on top of Jones. 

 

Jones screams as the creatures slices into him. 

 

Warm blood splatters, the creature snarls, human face twisted into something unreasonable, far beyond Shiro’s imagination.

 

“Run-” Jones garbles before the creature screams and its scythes slice into Jones’ face.

 

Shiro runs. 

 

** 

 

Shiro isn’t a soldier. He’s been trained in the military, he’s been on the field and it has left its mark. But he’s not a soldier. He saves lives, he doesn’t take them. He relishes every moment he breathes and sees and lives.

 

But not like this. 

 

The tram-system has locked, sealed doors and for a moment Shiro sits crouched by the tram, illuminated by the flickering lights. He inhales and exhales. Inhales and exhales. Exhaustion clings to his very bones, blood and filth all over his boots and hands. He’s used a nail gun. He’s used wrenches. He’s stolen a plasma gun from a dead soldier-  not Kogane, someone else Shiro has never seen or paid attention to. 

 

He saves lives, he doesn’t take them.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to. 

 

His eyes prickle with tears.

 

He saves lives. 

 

If he takes them, he can also save them. These are not people anymore. Shiro presses an aching palm to his aching nose, grimaces at the feeling of dried blood on his nose. That’s going to leave a scar. He hasn’t had time to return for more bandages, had salvaged what he could while running for his life. 

 

His entire body burns. 

 

* * 

 

_ ‘Takashi.’  _

 

He doesn’t listen. He can’t listen. His communicator he had managed to somewhat make work, but the connections are silent. Is he truly alone? 

 

_ ‘Takashi.’ _

 

The voice had started two levels ago. Shiro knows he should find the escape pods, if they are intact and leave. But if there is a single person, just one - Shiro can save them. This is what he does.

 

What next? Crew deck? Shiro slams the controls of the tram and it twitches, coughs, hesitates before it moves. 

 

“You and me both, buddy.” 

 

_ ‘Takashi. Why don’t you look at me?’ _ Shiro squeezes his eyes closed and wipes sweat off his face. He sits down and inhales deeply. He squeezes the plasma gun tight, eager to pull the trigger. 

 

“I don’t need ghosts,” Shiro  whispers. He’s jolted awake from his half-doze when the tram screeches. The monotone, feminine voice informs him there is an obstruction. That the tram will be rerouted to Engineering. 

“I’m also not a damn engineer.” He lowers his head and inhales deep.

 

The ghost of a lover long gone keeps on calling. Shiro doesn’t listen. He’s not a man stuck in the past, after all.

 

**

 

Engineering proves to be a shining little light of hope. Shiro discovers two survivors, huddled up inside their engineering suits, both armed with line guns. Their voices distorted.

 

“We had a fellow with us,” Ulaz murmurs. He adjusts his grip on his gun. “A good man.” 

 

“He went on ahead alone for the armory,” Thace adds. “Good kid, that Kogane.” 

 

Shiro’s heart sinks, yet he steels himself. “Have you… heard back from him?” Kogane is alive. Earthborn orphan boy, stranded in space. He had told Shiro he loves the stars too.  _ Maybe we could watch them together sometime, _ Shiro had said, shyly.  _ That’d be nice, _ Kogane had said.

 

Thace and Ulaz share a look. They are both grim. “Unfortunately, no. You are welcome to stay with us until we manage to find a way to the flight deck. I assume you already noticed some of the tram way is blocked?” 

 

“Well, yes.” Shiro shifts. “Which way did Kogane go to?” 

 

Another look shared. Another silent word shared that Shiro is not privy to. The ship is breaking apart around them, yet here they stand, three lone survivors. Shiro wonders if the stars even care. 

 

“You are going to get yourself killed,” Ulaz says quietly. “At least put on one of the suits. It protects you better than that flimsy uniform. And take one of the line guns.” His gaze is as unflinching as an owl’s, his silence eerie. 

 

Shiro does take a suit and a gun, finds his footing after a moment of hassle because the engineering suits are not usually made for quick runs or quick movements. The helmet obscures and protects, presses his matted hair against his skull. 

 

“I will try to catch up to you two. Please keep in touch,” he says. 

 

He doesn’t say goodbye.

 

** 

 

The Engineering is the part of the ship that Shiro knows the least. His communicator works, but the map it shows him is disjointed, disturbed. He goes by instinct and gently tries to contact Kogane. The communicator only hisses at him.

 

These halls are pitch-dark, making the walls tighter, narrower. Shiro keeps on inhaling, exhaling. Keeps on living, breathing. 

 

They’re not human anymore. I’m saving them. 

 

He stomps on the re-animated corpses, ignores that this could have been an officer or a soldier or a cadet, this was a person once. He stomps and he shoots and he runs, clumsily and loudly. His stomach growls, empty, yet his appetite has been squashed by blood splatters on the walls, the ruined, mutilated corpses littering the hallways. 

 

At the first sign of a dismembered arm, he had nearly hurled. 

 

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers but the ship continues to groan like a dying beast.

 

He calls for Kogane. 

 

Finally, his communicator wheezes and Kogane’s face pops into view.

 

Shiro stops. He’s never seen Kogane without his helmet and now knows why Thace and Ulaz called him a kid: because that face is young, framed by pitch-black hair, eyes large and young. Half of his face is matted with brown or red or black. 

 

“Shiro?” 

 

Shiro taps his helmet until it pulls from his face. “Where are you? Are you hurt? I’m coming to get you.” 

 

Kogane’s grin is crooked. He’s leaning against a wall, it seems. Sitting. There is nothing but dark around him. 

“Bleeding out,” he whispers. Then the connection cuts. 

 

Shiro curses at an uncaring God and marches on. 

 

It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay is a mantra in his head. Takashi, why won’t you look at me, is the whisper in his ears. 

 

“It’s okay. I’m not going insane.” SS Yamamoto’s walls hold no answers for him, only more murder and death. 

 

* * 

 

Exhaustion drops Shiro to his knees a few halls away, at the sight of a flickering light. It’s not one of the lights on the ceilings, but from a regular torch. 

 

“Kogane?” 

 

Shiro struggles to stand up and march on, keeping his weapons at the ready. His communicator stays silent. 

 

He comes closer to discover Kogane, still breathing, but - 

 

“Hang in there, buddy, I’ll take care of you,” Shiro whispers and drops to his knees. His helmet slides off his face, he places his weapons to the ground and digs through his stash for his medical supplies.

 

Kogane is pale as death, his right leg chopped off from the thigh down. He had tried to tie it off with some fabric scraps but the floor under him is dyed a rust red from the amount of blood he’s bled. 

 

“Shirogane,” Kogane whispers. God, he looks so young. “Nice to see you helmetless.” 

Shiro pulls off his gloves and pulls on medical gloves instead, sets his own light near to shine light on Kogane’s mangled leg.

“Ssh, buddy. Speak for yourself. I never saw you without your helmet.” 

 

Kogane draws breath. “Too shy.” He doesn’t whimper or otherwise show signs of pain. He hesitantly takes the tiny water bottle and the tiny medicine bottle Shiro offers to him. Kogane downs them both. 

 

“Too shy? Let’s keep talking, buddy. You’re doing good.” The smell is undeniably awful. Shiro sighs deep and carefully cuts more of Kogane’s mangled trousers above where his leg has been cut. “Come on. Tell me why would you be too shy around me.” Shiro’s focus is on his patient. How long has Kogane been sitting here, in the dark? 

 

“You’re hot,” Kogane whispers, laughs. “And kind. You radiate- “ he coughs. “Warmth.” 

 

Shiro’s hands, assessing the damage, still. He lifts startled eyes. 

 

Kogane looks away. “Look at me, Keith fucking Kogane, so bored he gets a crush on the first person who’s constantly nice to him-” he coughs again, face twisting in pain. 

 

“Keith,” Shiro says and finds it in himself to smile. The voice in his ears has shut down, chased away by another living human and the lights. “And here I was thinking you just didn’t think I was worth it.” Shiro’s gloved hands are coated in blood way too soon. 

 

“You should leave me,” Keith whispers. “Where can I go like this?” 

 

Shiro’s jaw tightens. “No. I save lives.” He tightens the bandage, tightens it around the stump. He shudders. “I - I enjoy our talks, Keith.” He wipes his forehead, leaves a swipe of red. He forces yet another medicine bottle’s contents down Keith’s throat. “I wish to have more of them.” 

 

“That’s the kindness I know.” Keith’s voice is husky, low. Tight with pain. He is pretty, even under pain and suffering, a face fitting that voice and that gentle heart Shiro had heard through their talks before. 

 

“I will save you,” Shiro whispers. “I promise.” He helps Keith up only after gathering all of his supplies, only after salvaging a makeshift crutch from whatever he has on hand. Now the cold in Shiro’s heart has lessened- now his rage against this invasion is taking a backburner. He has something to protect.

 

“My hero,” Keith whispers, his grin more of a pained grimace as he leans heavily against Shiro, leaving Shiro’s weapon arm free. 

 

“Oh, Keith. I am no one’s hero.” 

 

**

 

Together, they kill. Together they nurse their wounds. Together they escape. 


End file.
